Chapter 12
Mom cooks like it’s Thanksgiving and Christmas rolled into one.
The table is overflowing—roast chicken glistening with herbs, mashed potatoes, asparagus drizzled with butter, rich gravy, three kinds of salad, and something in the oven bubbling like a cinnamon-sugar spell.
It's too much food for four people. But when Mom’s nervous, she cooks. When she’s scared, she feeds you like it might fix things.
I'm setting out the good china—the delicate plates that only come out for holidays—when headlights sweep across the window.
My stomach drops. “He’s here.”
Mom smooths her dress for the hundredth time. “Do I look okay? Is this too much? Should I have worn the blue one?”
“You look beautiful, Mom.”
Dad grunts from the recliner, still pretending to read the same newspaper he’s had open for twenty silent minutes.
The doorbell rings.
I take a step, but Dad’s already rising. “I’ll get it.”
Oh God.
Through the frosted glass, Jordan’s silhouette stands tall and composed—broad shoulders, square jaw. He’s holding something.
Dad opens the door.
Jordan stands there in tan slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a navy blazer. No tie—not too formal. Smart. No jeans—not too casual. Even smarter. He’s nailed it.
In one hand, he holds a gift-wrapped package. In the other, a bouquet of chrysanthemums—Mom’s favorite.
I don’t even remember telling him about the flowers. Must’ve been some late-night half-sleep conversation. But he remembered.
He extends a hand. “Mr. Wells. Thank you for having me.”
Dad stares at it for just long enough to make me stop breathing—then grips it, firm and brief.
“Jordan.” My dad's tone isn't warm. Yet, not quite frosty. Just... neutral.
I’ll take neutral.
Jordan's eyes find mine over Dad's shoulder, and I see the question there. How am I doing so far?
I give him the smallest smile.
"Mrs. Wells," Jordan says as Mom appears, from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "These are for you." He offers the chrysanthemums. "Sabrina mentioned they were your favorite."
Mom’s lips part in surprise, and her eyes go soft. “Well… aren’t you just charming.” She takes the bouquet like it’s something sacred. “Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He steps inside, and I watch as he takes in our modest little living room—the sagging couch, the faded rug with holes in it, the crooked frame of my parents' wedding photo that’s been off-center since I was twelve. If he's unimpressed by any of it, it doesn’t show.
Dad remains by the door, arms folded like a bouncer.
Jordan turns to him again. “Sir, I heard you were a Larry McMurtry fan.” He offers the wrapped gift. “I came across a copy of Lonesome Dove in an old bookshop in Vegas.”
Dad's eyebrows shoot up. He takes the package slowly, then unwraps it.
When he sees the book—leather-bound, pristine—he goes very still. "This is a first edition," he mutters, running his thumb over the cover.
"1985," Jordan confirms.
Dad looks up at him, and something shifts in his expression. Not quite approval. But... recalibration. He clears his throat. "Thank you."
He walks to the mantel and sets it down with more care than I’ve ever seen him show anything that wasn’t me or Mom. Then he grunts, turns toward the dining room. “Let’s eat.”
We sit—Dad at the head of the table, Mom to his right, Jordan to his left and directly opposite Mom, me beside Jordan. The seating arrangement feels strategic, like a cross-examination.
For the first few minutes, there's no sound except the clink of silverware against ceramic and the soft scrape of serving spoons as we pass dishes.
Mom fills the silence with nervous chatter. “It’s been so hot lately, hasn’t it? I heard Vegas hit 110 degrees last week. Can you imagine? Though I suppose you’re used to it, coming from there—or, well, not from there originally. Where are you from, dear?”
“I mostly grew up in New York,” Jordan says, reaching for the mashed potatoes.
Mom perks up. “Mostly?”
He pauses, his smile polite. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid. My dad’s work had us bouncing from city to city—Houston, Tulsa, even a few months in Calgary once. We always circled back to New York, though. That was my home base.”
Mom tilts her head, clearly filing away every word. “That must’ve been hard. What about school?”
Across the table, I bite my lip, already knowing what he’s about to say.
“I moved schools every term for a while,” Jordan replies, his tone easy, like he’s reciting a weather report. “Sometimes I was homeschooled. Depends on where we were and how long we’d be there.”
“Oh, goodness,” Mom says, shaking her head. “That sounds... chaotic.”
Jordan shrugs. “I didn’t know any different at the time.”
“But what about your mother?” she asks gently, her brows knitting. “Surely she didn’t pack up and go with you everywhere.”
He leans back slightly. “No, she wasn’t one for moving around much. My sister was a baby back then, so she stayed in New York with her.”
“Oh, Jordan,” Mom murmurs, her voice softening. “That must’ve been so isolating. No stable home, no friends your age, no mother nearby…”
“I had my dad,” Jordan says. “And a lot of his friends. Executives, mostly. I spent a lot of time in boardrooms, tagging along to meetings.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “That’s no place for a child.”
“Mommy,” I chide gently.
Jordan smiles. “It’s okay, Bree.” He turns back to my mother.
“You’re right. It wasn’t ideal. But I made the most of it.
Learned early how to sit still and listen, how to read a room, how to make grown men laugh.
” His voice softens. “Most of those men… they’re still in my life.
Some of them feel more like family than my own blood. ”
There’s a quiet moment, the air around the table shifting slightly. Mom watches him with new eyes now, like she’s seeing the boy he used to be, not just the man sitting in front of her.
By the way, Mrs. Wells," Jordan says warmly. "This is the best roast chicken I've had in years."
"Oh, it's just a family recipe," Mom demurs, but she's glowing.
"Well, it's incredible!" Jordan flashes her a grin.
Mom laughs at that, clearly charmed.
Dad, however, isn’t laughing. He hasn't spoken since we sat down, instead cuts another piece of chicken, chews slowly, then sets down his fork with a loud clink.
“So,” he says, in that deceptively mild tone I’ve come to dread, “how’s the weather up in the clouds where rich people live?”
I nearly choke on my water.
“Bobby!” Mom hisses, scandalized.
Jordan doesn’t flinch. He just smiles at my father like he’d been expecting this exact punch all night.
“Pretty similar to down here, sir. Just with more paperwork.”
I press my lips together to hide my smile.
Dad narrows his eyes. “Speaking of paperwork. What exactly do you do at the plant? Beyond meeting with the unionists and the big wigs. I’ve never seen you on the floor.”
Here it comes.
“As floor supervisor, I’d think you’d be more on the rigs. Daily. Not just pushing papers from an air-conditioned office.”
“Dad—” I start, but Jordan’s hand brushes my knee under the table, a soft tap. I catch his hand under the table, squeezing briefly. He squeezes back, and I feel the slight tremor in his fingers.
He's nervous. Still, when he speaks, there's no hint of fear.
“That’s a fair question. My title at the Henderson site isn’t actually Floor Supervisor.
I’m an Executive Intern,” he explains, calmly.
And suddenly, he’s not the boy I make out with in cars, or the man who makes me tremble with a look.
He’s the heir to Apex Energy. The future CEO.
The one they’ve been grooming since he was old enough to sit in on merger calls.
"Executive intern?" Dad presses, looking unconvinced.
“I’m on a three-year leadership rotation across all forty Apex locations in the country. In my first year, I worked twelve-hour shifts in full gear. Rigs. Refineries. Dispatch yards. Side by side with the crew.”
Dad’s eyebrows twitch.
“I agree with you, Mr. Wells—if I’m going to run a company that asks men to sweat for it, I should be willing to bleed for it too.”
His voice is steady. Quiet. But it lands like a challenge.
“I have. I do. Every day,” he adds softly, like it costs him something to say it.
A long beat passes.
Then Dad nods once. It’s not warm. Not approval. But something shifts in the air—like the ground between them just got a little more level.
“And now?” Dad asks. “You pushing pencils in your final year?”
Jordan’s mouth lifts. “I’m shadowing senior management. Mostly business operations and compliance. Learning where the real messes are made.”
Dad lets out a small grunt. “They don’t teach that in a boardroom.”
“No, sir,” Jordan agrees. “They really don’t.”
And just like that, they're talking. Not like billionaire heir and plant foreman. Not like boss and employee. But like two men who understand what it means to carry responsibility that doesn't care if you're tired or scared or overwhelmed.
They go deep into industry talk — safety protocols, labor disputes, regulatory chokeholds. Jordan talks about a shutdown in Oklahoma and how they handled the fallout. Dad counters with a story about the union push back in ‘08 and how they barely kept the plant open.
I can barely keep up.
But I don’t need to. I just sit there, quietly stunned, watching this thing happen. This impossible, surreal thing: Jordan Farrington — rich, beautiful, confident Jordan — earning my father’s guarded respect.
Jordan sounds older than anyone his age has any right to sound, and watching him, I realize again at how he never had the luxury of being a kid. He went from kindergarten school to being groomed to run a billion-dollar empire, without any space in between to just... be.
The thought makes my chest ache.
Mom brings out cinnamon apple pie—warm, with vanilla ice cream melting over the top—and the conversation shifts. She asks Jordan about his family, and he tells her about Meredith, his younger sister.